


The Road To Krowpow Castle

by Switchbladekid



Category: Tintin - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 21:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1137839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Switchbladekid/pseuds/Switchbladekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tintin faces one more obstacle on his way to return King Ottokar's Scepter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road To Krowpow Castle

The stolen plane screamed earthward, trailing flames. Tintin grabbed his dog and hit the eject button. It catapulted them high into the night sky, beyond the range of the searchlights. An instant later they began to fall. Smoke stung his eyes. Only when he yanked the paracord did he see that his sleeve had also caught fire. The chute blossomed above them, leaving him a free hand to beat it out. 

The ground rushed to meet them. A blackened tree blocked their descent, its branches like upthrust knives. Tintin pulled hard on the straps, steering the chute around it and avoiding impalement by millimeters. He hit the ground hard and from the wrong angle. Unbalanced, he fell backwards, taking the full force of the landing with his backside. He let Snowy go and, wincing, got to his feet. 

Unfortunately, stealing the Bordurian fighter hadn't gained him much, other than a blistered hand. He suspected his arm was in the same shape. The sleeve of his raincoat was burned black; beneath it, the skin felt raw. And hot, despite the frigid night air. Well, he was without a first-aid kit. The only remedy was to get the Scepter Of Ottokar back to the palace as soon as possible. 

His very first step caused pain to shoot through hip and thigh. Nothing he could do about that, either. Surely it would ease when the muscles warmed up. At least, he hoped so. He laid out a chess board in his head and set about putting the long kilometers behind him, working on breaking through the notoriously challenging Alekhine Defense as he walked. While it didn't completely block out his discomfort it did serve as a distraction. So much so that he didn't realize that he was hearing running water until he almost fell into the river. 

Snowy barked a warning just in time. Tintin found himself teetering on the edge of the bank, sending a small landslide of earth and gravel into the water. It was a good four meters to the other side but the current didn't seem particularly fast. Good. Goodbumps rose on his flesh at the very idea, but he could see only one way across. Reluctantly, he shed his raincoat and laid it to one side. His sweater and shirt went next. 

He was already shivering by the time he got down to his pants and undershorts, but it was critical that he take the time to tie his clothing into a manageable bundle before wading in. The entire package went on the top of his head, held securely in place by his belt. 

The water was shockingly cold, even worse than he had expected. Of course, he thought, it was full of snowmelt from the Albanian Alps. He grit his teeth, clutched the Scepter to his naked chest and waded on until it reached his shoulders. Snowy swam past him and was scrambling up the opposite bank when Tintin was barely past the midpoint. Slowly his limbs, hidden beneath the dark surface, began to go numb. Unable to feel his feet, he stepped ever more carefully. 

When at last he reached the other side and dragged himself up the bank he found himself gasping like a fish, shaking so hard he thought he might topple over. He forced deadened hands to reach for the bundle of clothing. Naked and soaking, he faced the very real possibility of hypothermia. 

He had to use both hands to undo the belt. There was something wrong about that, something his nearly-frozen wits couldn't pin down . . . until he realized that he no longer had the Scepter. Panic brought him to life again. It wasn't on the roadway. It wasn't on the bank. That left only one possibility: The bottom of the river. 

He had no choice but to plunge back in. It was darker below the surface than above. The silt spun in miniature tornadoes as he dropped to hands and knees, groping along the bottom. He was running out of breath when his fingertips brushed something roughly cylindrical. He seized it and pushed up towards the surface. In his hand was only a branch, waterlogged and leafless. 

He could have cried if he'd had the breath for it. Once more he gulped air, but this time he didn't so much plunge as sink, allowing the freezing current to suck him down. Touching bottom he deliberately stirred the silt, twisting his head first left, then right, then left again in a desperate search for the glint of gold. And there it was. The wings of the golden pelican made the outline unmistakable, even if its shine was dimmed in the underwater gloom. 

He dragged himself from the river. He barely registered Snowy's whine as he half stumbled, half crawled up the bank. Arms, legs and fingers were like wood, barely able to fasten buttons and close zippers as he dragged his clothes back on. There was nothing to dry off with. His shirt, undershirt and shorts pasted themselves to his skin. He slid the Scepter into the pocket of his coat. 

Exhausted as he was, he forced himself into a trot in the desperate hope that it would warm him up. After several minutes the pain in hip and thigh reawakened, giving the trot a lopsided quality. Soreness enveloped him like a glove. The worst of it was that he was still cold. Once more he laid out the chessboard in his mind to give him something other than his discomfort to focus on. 

It didn't work, or not entirely. Again and again he found himself practically sleepwalking, eyes half closed, registering only the two or three feet of road directly in front of him. Four hours went by. Five. He was hardly aware of it when the sky began to lighten, the first birds to sing. And there, thank God, was the city of Klow. Soon he found himself staring up at the stone hulk of Krowpow Castle itself. 

"Halt, you! What business do you have at this hour?" Like all castle guards, the man wore a billowing red coat and brilliant blue sash. 

Luckily his partner recognized him. "Mr. Tintin! It's all right, Pjeter. Let him pass." 

Inside, standing before King Muskar and his ministers, he reached into the pocket of his coat . . . and found it empty. For a single, hideous second he thought he might be physically sick at his failure. The next instant Snowy arrived, dragging the Sceptre like a golden bone. 

The King seized it. "Saved!" 

"Not for long." It came out in a croak, earning him a quizzical look from Muskar. Tintin cleared his throat, holding out the documents he'd uncovered with a shaking hand. Signed by the head of Borduria's Iron Fist, they outlined plans to seize the throne and annex Syldavia. 

The King scanned them, frowning. "These are wet. Whatever on earth have you . . . My boy, you're blue! Brandy! Quickly!"

His fingers were still so numb he couldn't close them around the glass. It slipped from his hand, hitting the carpet. He sank towards the floor. His eyes fell shut. 

An arm went around his shoulders, another under his knees. Close to his ear he heard the King: ""A room, Lord Chancellor, and a bath, as hot as possible. And call my court physician." 

The next several minutes were a blur. He was moving, but not under his own power. He had an impression of brilliant lights, painted panels and a massive four-poster bed, its headboard carved with the Black Pelican. Gentle hands manouvered him this way and that, plucking at his damp clothing until there was nothing but air against his skin. He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he knew he was in water up to his chin. 

Steaming hot water, velvetly with some fragrant oil. He opened his eyes to find himself in the widest, deepest bathtub he had ever seen. It was ringed with anxious faces, those of the King, Lord Chancellor and two other solemn, bearded gentlemen, all of whom wore several more layers of clothing than Tintin himself did. Had he been stronger he would have been mortified. As it was, the sheer absurdity of the situation made him laugh . . . if in a weak, hiccuppy king of way. 

There was a bandage for his burned hand and arm. Then pajamas, of buttery blue silk. Warm. Stew with chunks of lamb and potato. Warm. That vast, soft bed with its yards of goosedown. Warm. Warmest of all was the hand of the King as it clasped his own. "Sweet dreams, Tintin. God knows you've more than earned them."


End file.
